I turn, and the sigh escapes me before I can stop it. Andrew looks like hell… black eye already swelling, a nasty cut on his cheek still crusted with dried blood. He flashes that idiot grin anyway, the one that says he thinks I’m his personal get-out-of-jail-free card, like none of this really matters because good old Slade will always show up.
“Thanks, Paul,” I say, voice clipped.
Before Andrew can open his mouth, I grab the front of his collar and drag him through the station. Everyone’s too busy to notice or care, and Paul knows damn well the kid deserves a lot worse than a rough escort out.
Andrew stumbles along beside me, sneakers scuffing the floor. “What the fuck, Slade!”
I round on him the second we’re outside, face inches from his, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes and the way his breath catches. “I don’t want to hear a single word out of your fucking mouth, Drew. I swear to God.”
He swallows hard, searching my angry face for a long beat before giving a small, reluctant nod.
We reach my truck in the lot. Andrew automatically moves for the front passenger door, hand pulling the handle like it’s any other night. I slam the door shut with a solid thunk, eyes sharp as I gesture toward the back doors. The message is clear: I’ve really had enough this time.
Andrew doesn’t meet my gaze. He just drops his eyes to the pavement and climbs into the back seat without another word.
I slide into the driver’s seat, lock all the doors with a decisive click, and turn the engine over. The truck rumbles to life, headlights cutting through the dark as I pull out of the lot.
The drive home is thankfully quiet… no smart remarks, no music, no nothing. Just the low growl of the engine and the occasional flicker of streetlights across the dash. But my irritation only grows with every silent mile. His stupid behaviour, the fighting, the stealing, the way he keeps testing every boundary like he’s daring me to finally snap… it’s all piling up inside me, hot and heavy, refusing to settle.
When we finally pull into the driveway, I kill the engine and unlock the doors. I don’t even have to tell him. Andrew climbs out on his own, quiet for once, and follows me up the walk to the front door. I click the truck fob twice, the locks chirping behind us, before stepping inside.
The house is dark and still. I lock the door behind us with a heavy deadbolt click, then turn slowly, arms crossing over my chest as I stare at Andrew standing there in the entryway… black eye, cut cheek, shoulders tense, that rebellious spark still flickering somewhere behind his guarded expression.
Chapter Two
Andrew
The weight of Slade’s stare presses into me like a physical thing, heavy and unrelenting, disappointment carved so deep into his eyes that I can’t fucking breathe under it anymore. I break first, turning sharply on my heel and heading straight for the kitchen. My sneakers scuff against the hardwood, loud in the too-quiet house. I yank open the fridge, the cold air hitting my face as I grab a can of Coke. The sharp hiss of the tab echoes through the silence like a challenge. I bring it to my lips and take a long, noisy gulp, the cold fizz burning down my throat.
I hear him stalk in after me before I even see him. His broad frame fills the doorway completely, shoulders squared, jacket already shrugged off. The tight black t-shirt he’s wearing stretches across his chest and arms, muscles corded and tense where they’re crossed over his chest. A few dark strands of hair have fallen over one eye, and honestly, he looks a little murderous right now… jaw set, eyes dark, every inch of him radiating barely-leashed frustration.
I set the Coke can down gently on the counter, the soft clink somehow louder than it should be. My pulsekicks up as I wait for the explosion I know is coming. The shouting. The lecture. The same tired script we’ve played out a dozen times.
But Slade doesn’t yell. Instead, he moves… aggressive and decisive. One big hand clamps around my upper arm and shoves me backward toward the kitchen table. I stumble, dropping into the nearest chair with a grunt, the wood scraping loudly against the floor. Before I can even straighten up, he’s already at the freezer, yanking out an ice pack and wrapping it in a clean dish towel. He’s back in seconds, pressing the pack firmly against my swollen eye. The cold shocks my skin, sharp and immediate.
“Hold it,” he growls, voice rough, leaving no room for argument.
I do as I’m told, fingers wrapping around the pack while he turns to the cabinet where we keep the first aid kit. He slams it down on the table, the contents rattling inside. His movements are clipped and angry, as he tears open a packet of antiseptic wipes. He tilts my chin up with two rough fingers, forcing my face toward the light, and starts cleaning the nasty cut on my cheek. The sting makes me hiss through my teeth, but he doesn’t soften his touch. He works methodically, wiping away the dried blood, his breath warm against my skin as he leans in close. The scent of motor oil and his usual aftershave hits me.
When the cut is clean, he peels open a couple of butterfly strips and presses them carefully over the splitskin, pulling the edges together to keep it closed. His fingers linger a second longer than necessary, calloused thumbs brushing just beneath the wound. Even after he zips the first aid bag shut with a sharp zip, he doesn’t step back. He just stands there, staring down at me with that intense, unreadable look… jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek, eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to see straight through to whatever broke inside of me.
I’m used to the shouting. I can handle the yelling, the lectures, the slammed doors. But this… this quiet, aggressive care mixed with whatever storm is brewing behind his eyes… I don’t know what to do with it. It unsettles me more than any explosion ever could. My stomach twists, heat crawling up the back of my neck as I sit here under his gaze, ice pack pressed to my face, the cut on my cheek stinging in time with my pulse.
The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating, until Slade finally breaks it, his voice low and edged with barely contained fury. “Who were you with?”
I swallow hard, the sound loud in my own ears. I stay quiet, knowing damn well he’s not going to like the answer. My fingers tighten around the ice pack still pressed to my swollen eye, the cold doing nothing to ease the heat crawling up my neck.
Slade doesn’t wait long. His hand shoots out, fingers tangling roughly in the back of my hair. He yanks me forward until his face is too close, breath hot against my skin, eyes blazing with the kind of anger that says he’sfinally had enough this time. “I asked you a question, Drew.Answerit.”
I mumble it under my breath, barely audible. “Jayden.”
Slade’s grip tightens for a split second. “Jayden?”
I nod once, quick and reluctant, my scalp stinging where his fingers are still buried in my hair.
He lets go abruptly, shoving my head back in the process so hard the chair creaks beneath me. I catch myself before I tip over, heart hammering. Slade runs both hands down his face like he’s trying to keep himself from combusting right here in the kitchen.
When he drops them, his expression is pure exhaustion mixed with rage. “Go to your fucking room, kid.”
